


four in some velvet morning

by nfwmb (earthshaker)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Ambiguous Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Reunions, Rule 63, villaneve killed a victorian child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29536041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthshaker/pseuds/nfwmb
Summary: The last time Minghao had seen Seokmin, she’d picked out a bullet from Minghao’s arm with surgical precision, tongue out between her lips as she stitched Minghao up. Somewhere in the night the pain had knocked Minghao out and she’d woken up in an empty safehouse, the lingering scent of Seokmin’s perfume proof that Seokmin had been there and not some bloodied, haggard shade picked from her memory. That had been six months ago.
Relationships: Lee Seokmin | DK/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40
Collections: DK's Birthday Bash!, Seventeen Holidays





	four in some velvet morning

**Author's Note:**

> this was not the dkday fic i wanted to write but bad planning on my part cucked me, and i wasn't going to miss my first 218 posting day in three years, so i edited a fill for 17hols for this [prompt](https://17hols.dreamwidth.org/4307.html?thread=153043#cmt153043) by karina. a ~light~ playlist is r u mine - arctic monkeys (title credits), it will come back - hozier & when i was young - kate boy. this fic also now features [beautiful art by @_jhcha on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/_jhcha/status/1366938282102165507?s=20)

Minghao’s back is turned to the stage when polite applause follows the announcement of a performance by Diana Kim, fixed on Choi Seungcheol fifteen feet away. She has no chance at parting the crowd around Seungcheol, which is good seeing as she’s only here to keep an eye on him. There’s a breathless _hello_ whispered into the mic as the band starts up, a whispered refrain that plucks at the strings of Minghao’s memory and the band kicks off into a jazzy number. It paints the room gold in joy, Diana starts singing, and Minghao’s blood turns to water through a garden hose in winter. She turns on her heel—Junhui’s amused snort in her ear—and that’s all the confirmation she needs.

The last time Minghao had seen Seokmin, she’d picked out a bullet from Minghao’s arm with surgical precision, tongue out between her lips as she stitched Minghao up. Somewhere in the night the pain had knocked Minghao out and she’d woken up in an empty safehouse, the lingering scent of Seokmin’s perfume proof that Seokmin had been there and not some bloodied, haggard shade picked from her memory.

That had been six months ago. 

On a tangible level, Seokmin had disappeared off the face of the earth, haunting Minghao by leaving the occasional present. A bottle of Baccarat Rouge on the doorstep of her loft signed with the bright stamp of a lipsticked kiss. An antique diamond necklace from the collection of some countess and a snipping of the article detailing its disappearance. An original Monet that Minghao does not want to know the story behind. 

(It hangs over her bed.)

Diana— _Seokmin_ —on stage feels like one of those gifts: presented carefully with the edge of a threat, a razor embedded into a tube of lipstick. Seokmin looks stunning, her dress a brilliant azure that puts the Santorini sky to shame, off the shoulder and flowing over her figure like a sheet of water, a high slit up her right leg. Minghao has heard her sing twice—both times in the shower—but this is incomparable, her voice ringing crystal clear, a siren’s song, encouraging heartbreak to follow. 

“Recon’s over for the night huh?” Junhui chirps in Minghao’s earpiece. “Stay safe.”

Minghao can’t even snap back at Junhui to defend herself because he’s right.

Seokmin doesn’t meet her eyes through the set—three songs—and Minghao is left wondering if it’s because Seokmin genuinely hasn’t noticed Minghao’s presence or if it’s a game, one Minghao is intimately familiar with. Minghao gets her answer when Seokmin meets her eyes with a beatific smile, holding the last high note, the crowd erupts into genuine applause—satisfaction drips from Seokmin like the diamonds threaded through her ears. 

Here is what Minghao has learned about Seokmin: you must allow her to come to you. Press too hard, too fast and if you’re lucky, she draws into herself, holding you at a polite distance with all the frigidity of tundra in between. If you’re _unlucky_ , she reaches out with a hug, and a knife slipped between your third and fourth rib with a brilliant smile. Seokmin is good at that—disarming people, misleading them. 

Minghao mingles, patient as Seokmin weaves through the crowd—her dress is apparently backless—drawing the attention of Seungcheol himself. Seokmin easily draws a gummy smile from Seungcheol, has him tripping over himself to assure her, his gaze flickering between her hand on his arm and her tongue over her lips as she speaks animatedly. Minghao doesn’t miss the disappointment when he asks her something and she replies, probably turning down an invitation to spend the night with him, withdrawing to one of the open balconies as Seokmin turns towards her.

When Seokmin finally comes to Minghao, she takes a moment to inhale the scent that follows Seokmin: sage and sea salt. 

“Diana,” Minghao inclines her head, the corners of her mouth quirked in a half-smile.

“Do you prefer Meng Li, my love?” Seokmin smiles, the address too familiar for something they’re not, stepping into Minghao’s space, reaching out. 

Minghao reels her in—the moon reflecting the light of the sun—threading the fingers of her left hand with Seokmin’s right, her right going to the small of Seokmin’s back. Seokmin giggles and all of Minghao’s training goes out of the door, any pretense at neuroticism shattered like a hammer to glass. “S _eokmin_ —may I have this dance?” Minghao asks.

“And if I say no?” Seokmin whispers.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve denied me,” Minghao shoots back. Seokmin laughs, throwing her hand back with it and Minghao wants to drag her mouth along the line of her neck, map her body with the devotion of a cartographer consumed by the discovery of a new continent. 

Dancing to the strains of the orchestra as the sun dips below the horizon, it feels like an insight into a life Minghao _could_ have—Seokmin in her arms. Cocooned from everything else, it's as close to love as they can get. The only thing more bedrock in its certainty is how Minghao and Seokmin drift apart and come back together and drift apart and come back together, different names for the changing settings around them, but the same to each other.

“The short hair suits you,” Seokmin compliments, the hand on Minghao’s shoulder moving to the nape of Minghao’s neck. Her touch feels like a live wire against bare skin. “I haven’t seen your ears in so long, it’s cute.”

Minghao wills herself not to blush but her body is always traitorous in the presence of Seokmin, ears burning. Seokmin’s smile turns into something softer, tracing the shell of Minghao’s ear and Minghao has learned to read it for what it's really saying: this is real. At her core, Seokmin is simple; the Seokmin you see is the Seokmin you get—gentle, charismatic, the black hole at the center of the universe everyone hurtles towards—but it’s the Seokmin you _don’t_ see that you should be worried about. It’s the dissonance between Seokmin’s leg around Minghao’s hip as Minghao dips her at the crescendo of the song, miles of tan skin and the coy smile she shoots Minghao when her hands stray too high to find the edge of a holster strapped around Seokmin’s thigh. 

The tension between them is so thick it’s in their lungs, the first drag of air in humid, heavy Singapore after hours of recycled, climate-controlled air. Minghao’s hand goes higher, hiking up Seokmin’s dress with it, fingers skating the knives, Seokmin’s eyes boring into hers. 

When they kiss, it’s the rebound of an elastic band; two people stretched too thin with want, they snap back together. Seokmin’s mouth on her is desperate as Minghao rights them both, crowding Minghao against the balustrade, hands already under Minghao’s suit jacket, too impatient to unbutton it. Minghao pulls away and Seokmin follows, a low whine under her breath.

“Not here,” Minghao is firm, tugging Seokmin’s hands away. 

They weave through the crowd, pausing only for Seokmin to throw a flirtatious wink over her shoulder when Seungcheol catches sight of her ruined lipstick and rumpled dress. He looks heartbroken, and Minghao is probably too smug as they trip over each other in their haste to get to Minghao’s hotel room.

Minghao tries not to make falling into bed with Seokmin a habit considering emotion is a double-edged blade in their line of work but Seokmin is hard to resist. One minute she keeps Minghao closed, tucked against her like Minghao is the heft of her favourite blade in her palm and the next, Minghao could fit an ocean in the space between them. Somewhere between Seokmin stabbing Minghao in the thigh, narrowly missing her femoral artery as Seokmin went after her target and providing Minghao cover fire with an accuracy that could put some of Minghao’s senior colleagues to shame, Minghao’s wires had crossed. Seokmin occupies the gray space between _I want you_ and _I need you_.

Seokmin hops onto the sideboard along the floor-to-ceiling mirror of the room, spreading her legs to give Minghao space, looking for all the world like the vision board of the interior designers when they’d decided on the room. 

“Is the part where I crawl to you on my knees?” Minghao’s voice is far too hoarse for it to sound like a joke. There’s a delighted sparkle in Seokmin’s eyes as she rucks the fabric of the dress inwards, one bare thigh out.

“I wouldn’t complain if you did, baby.” Minghao inhales sharply and Seokmin’s smile goes from mischievous to dangerous. Minghao rushes forward, narrow hips fitting against the cradle of Seokmin’s thigh like natural design, carved from the same block of marble.

“You’d love that,” she says against Seokmin’s neck, meaning, _I missed you_. Seokmin’s hands find Minghao’s wrists, circling around them, Minghao inhaling deeply as Seokmin guides them to where the zipper is hidden under a swath of artful fabric, Minghao pulling it down as slow as she can. 

It feels _slightly_ masochistic to be staring at the reflection of Seokmin’s back as the fabric of Seokmin’s dress falls away and pools at her waist. Seokmin’s body is hot against Minghao despite the layers of her suit, two steps away from being fully nude, Seokmin’s head at an angle to watch her reflection as Minghao rubs the skin between her shoulderblades—a dark outline making itself known—fingertips tacky from her foundation.

Seokmin’s smile is knowing when she meets Minghao’s eyes. “Grab some makeup wipes and a towel.” 

Seokmin’s back is to Minghao when she returns with a pack of wipes and a damp towel in hand, the dress a pool on the floor. Seokmin’s skin is a blank canvas from her shoulders to the small of her back, the stretch of legs interrupted by the high cut of her underwear—the same blue as her dress, satin—and the black of her thigh holster, two daggers strapped to them. Seokmin waves Minghao forward with an imperious hand and Minghao laughs despite herself.

Minghao’s hands tremble as she runs the first wipe between Seokmin’s shoulder blades, Seokmin tensing. It’s a methodical process, the _jingum_ inked along her spine becoming clearer as Minghao goes over her skin, wipes piling up. The sword itself is black and white, fine lines. The flowers they’re nestled in are vivid—blue, yellow, red.

“You could get made,” there’s concern nestled within the matter of fact tone Minghao uses.

“You know I’m not usually wearing backless dresses,” Seokmin murmurs. Minghao, appropriately chastened, kisses Seokmin’s shoulder. Six people know about the existence of this tattoo—Minghao is the only one who isn’t a coworker. 

Minghao wipes over Seokmin’s back with the damp towel, dropping it in favour to scrape her teeth over the skin where Seokmin’s neck meets her shoulders, hands cupping Seokmin’s breasts, pinching her nipples lightly. Seokmin throws her head back against Minghao’s shoulder with a breathy moan, grinding down futilely against one of Minghao’s thighs between her legs, Minghao pinning her against the mirror. Minghao will never admit it in words, but she’s dizzy watching herself fully clothed behind a near naked Seokmin—it’s better that Seokmin’s holster is still on, actually—mouthing at her skin. Seokmin whines when Minghao switches to trailing her fingers lightly over the swell of her tits, circling closer and closer to her nipples but skating away before she touches them, the movements of her hips becoming more and more erratic—Seokmin has the most sensitive breasts of anyone Minghao has ever slept with. 

When Minghao holds a hand up to Seokmin’s mouth, she takes two fingers in with no complaint, laving between Minghao’s fingers, Minghao transfixed by the pink of Seokmin’s tongue in their reflection. Goosebumps follow the wet touch of Minghao’s fingers; Seokmin is already so wet. Minghao's trousers has a patch of fabric darker than its surroundings, so wet she takes two of Minghao’s fingers easily, Minghao’s palm flush against her, Seokmin trembling.

“Do you want to get fucked like this?” Minghao starts up a slow rhythm of fucking her fingers in and out of Seokmin.

“Shit,” Seokmin moans, two syllables long, trying to grind her clit against Minghao’s palm. “Think you’re supposed to ask _before_ you start fucking me.”

“You mean you don’t like this?” Minghao taunts, using her free hand to guide Seokmin by the jaw until she’s looking at her reflection head on. “You get so easy for me.”

“Because I _let_ —fuck, _Minghao_ —you,” Seokmin’s thighs creep closer together when Minghao adds another finger. 

Seokmin’s admission sends a thrill of heat through Minghao—it’s true. They may be evenly matched in hand to hand combat, but Seokmin has a clean knife throw, a better marksman, the most elegant archer Minghao knows—and she knows Junhui. Seokmin is broader too, her body defined with muscle in a way Minghao can never hope to attain. She’d held Minghao down once by the hips, made Minghao come with her mouth over and over again until Minghao had been boneless and dazed, lion domesticated.

Minghao can take _because_ Seokmin lets her, and that is more romantic than it _should_ be. More potent, given Seokmin trusts Minghao enough to have Minghao strip her to her core, turn herself over to Minghao’s hands, in their line of work.

When she fucks her fingers back in, she doesn’t go all the way, stretching Seokmin around her knuckles, Seokmin’s cunt fluttering around her fingers. 

“ _Minghao_ ,” Seokmin whines, and Minghao kisses her neck in acknowledgment and apology.

Minghao is indulgent when it comes to Seokmin, and it’s going to blow up in her face one of these days. Seokmin protests when Minghao pulls her fingers out only to make a noise of delight when Minghao pushes her onto the bed, pulling her to the edge of it, her legs over Minghao’s shoulders. Minghao lays wet kisses from the bend of Seokmin’s knee to the crease of Seokmin’s thigh; Seokmin smells earthy, familiar, Minghao’s mouth watering. She suctions her mouth to Seokmin’s clit at the same time she sinks two fingers into Seokmin’s cunt, curling them upwards.

Seokmin shouts, the heel of her foot pressing between Minghao’s shoulder blades, one hand fisting in Minghao’s hair. It grounds Minghao as she alternates between circling Seokmin’s clit with her tongue and sucking at it, her fingers grinding assuredly against the rough wall of Seokmin’s cunt, so wet her folds and the insides of her thighs are glistening with it. 

Minghao is fluent in twelve languages, not counting dialects, and conversational in another four. She’s only an expert at one other language besides her mother tongue: Seokmin’s body. It doesn’t matter that Seokmin chooses not to articulate her feelings when her body reassures Minghao’s every time. Seokmin’s thighs will spasm every time she’s close to coming, and Minghao knows to double her efforts. Seokmin’s fingers will linger on exposed strips of Minghao’s skin, and Minghao knows to anticipate the messages she will tap out in Morse. Seokmin will walk into a room with her back to Minghao, and Minghao knows it’s a gesture of trust.

Seokmin’s hand in Minghao’s hair goes painfully tight when she comes, body arched off the bed with a loud gasp, tapering out into moans as Minghao keeps lapping at her clit, her cunt fluttering around Minghao’s fingers. 

“Come up here,” Seokmin whinges, dragging her heel up Minghao’s back and using her foot to push Minghao away, sighing when Minghao pulls her fingers out. 

Minghao wrinkles her nose, staring down at her suit and Seokmin makes a face, rolling her eyes with an exaggerated sigh and bouncing up, manhandling Minghao into taking a seat at the edge of a bed.

“You get so fussy about outside clothes sometimes, it’s like you don’t get covered in blood on the regular, here, I’ll do it for you,” Seokmin straddles Minghao’s thighs, working at getting Minghao’s layers off. 

Seokmin once took 15 seconds to peel a tangerine—skin a clean curl, citrus sharp fingertips—and Minghao had spent the whole night chasing the taste from her mouth, somewhere in the Balkans, too exhausted for anything else. Right now, Minghao wishes she was a tangerine and not a human being, or at least, not someone who has to go through the torture of being undressed by Seokmin. Seokmin goes _so_ slowly Minghao feels like she burns through nine lives—undoing the three buttons of her suit jacket, sliding her hands across the starched fabric of Minghao’s shirt under the jacket before pushing it off, the jacket pooling around Minghao’s elbows. Then it’s Minghao’s scarf, fluttering to the ground. The ten pearl buttons of her shirt, Seokmin’s tongue poking out of her mouth, Minghao shivering when Seokmin drags her palms over bare skin and cotton, helping Minghao’s arms out of her jacket and shirt.

She sits back for a moment, taking Minghao in. “Practical as always.” 

“We can’t all be you,” Minghao huffs, glancing down at her grey cotton underwear. Seokmin’s eyes gleam like carbon steel, her favourite knife, Minghao’s gut twisting like Seokmin had sunk her knife through Minghao. 

Seokmin sinks to her knees between Minghao’s legs and Minghao lifts her hips to help Seokmin pull her pants off, Seokmin mouthing at the inside of Minghao’s knee like an afterthought. She manhandles Minghao up the bed with Minghao’s back to her chest, kissing the nape of Minghao’s neck. 

Minghao comes the first time enveloped by Seokmin, pinned by Seokmin’s body against her back and Seokmin’s hand between her legs, circling her Minghao’s clit through the fabric of her underwear. Minghao comes the second time with her shoulders against the tile of the bathroom, Seokmin on her knees. The night passes in a blur, against the cool surface of a mirror, against the down of the bed, time slowing down to molasses and the way they call out for each other. 

When Minghao wakes it is gradual, dreams dissolving like cotton candy on the tip of her tongue; only to flinch into awareness when she cuts her fingers along a blade rather than a body. Minghao sits up, sheets pooling around her waist, Seokmin’s side of the bed still warm, red blossoming against white.

Let it be said that Seokmin is generous in her haunting, leaving behind gifts for Minghao. Seokmin’s lipstick is smeared across the mirror—from where Minghao had pinned her against it and kissed her neck—a deep burgundy. Seokmin’s perfume lingers over the sheets like they’ve been laundered in it—and Seokmin can be petty enough to spray her perfume over Minghao’s sheets—sage and sea salt. Seokmin’s dagger—one of them at least, is in place of her body in Minghao’s bed—excessively ornate. 

Minghao sighs, smiling ruefully at the bloodstains. 

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday dogyeom n_n


End file.
